


polaroid pictures

by voguesloth



Series: charles/reader uploads [2]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluffity fluff, charles is the actual cutest, photographer!reader, set after Days of Future Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-20 01:49:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22074379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voguesloth/pseuds/voguesloth
Summary: He pulls a few the photographs out and looks at them with the most undecipherable, strangely amused smile, shifts his gaze to you for a moment, then looks back at the pictures. After that, he starts laughing lightly, which confounds you very, very much, because, well, why on earth would he?
Relationships: Charles Xavier/Reader
Series: charles/reader uploads [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588909
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	polaroid pictures

**Author's Note:**

> I found this going through my old docs and it made me smile bc I just love charles so much! he's definitely the type to laugh at your dorky photos and find them amusing even if you find them cringey af

If there’s one thing you hate about being a photographer, is organising the photos you’ve taken over the years, especially after not doing it for… well, an awfully long time. You’ve finally braced yourself for sorting them into albums by year and by camera, and getting rid of ones you don’t like, but there’s something about being swamped in prints that makes you want to set yourself on fire. You’re glad nobody has thought to bother you thus far, but since you haven’t had any contact with anyone, you’re not sure how much time has passed since you opened the first box. It certainly has been a couple of hours, and the room is beginning to get darker and darker as you see the sun set through one of the large windows.

You really should've seen it coming, though; it’s only logical that hiding them in cartons and blindly telling yourself _out of sight, out of mind_ only works for so long, and now, you really have to deal with the downright _humongous_ amount of developed photographs you’ve managed to amass in your bedroom. Thankfully, you’re about halfway through already, but it doesn’t mean that cataloguing the rest of them is going to be easy. Also, you’re pretty sure that if the remaining piles of pictures had eyes, they would somehow be staring right at you, offended that you haven’t got around to getting this done weeks ago.

Deciding that you most definitely deserve a quick break, you set a batch of prints back on the floor and stretch your shoulders a bit. After being in one position for so long, your spine hurts a little, and you make a mental note to at least try to keep your back straight when you return to your work. However, before you get to implement your little resolution, a sharp sound of knocking makes you jump in surprise. It isn’t even that loud, or particularly insistent, but you’ve become so accustomed to the silence around you, that it startles you.

You turn your head to the door, and before you have the chance to tell whoever’s on the other side that you’re busy and can’t help them with whatever it is that they want, you see that it’s already open. On the other side, you see the wheels of Charles’ chair, and when you look up, the man himself.

‘You’ve missed dinner. Is everything alright?’, he asks softly, his brows furrowed in concern, and suddenly you’re aware that the sunset you’ve noticed somewhere in your peripheral vision earlier means that it really has got late.

‘It’s fine, I’m just...’, pausing for a moment, you gesture around, to show him what you’re trying to deal with, ‘going through all of this old junk.’

You get up from your place on the wooden floor, to move one of the bigger boxes away, so that he can actually enter the room and wheel closer to you, instead of talking to you from across the doorway. Then, you close the door after him, because as much as you're okay with letting him in, you wouldn't like anything or anyone else disturbing you further.

‘How about this one? What's in there?’ Charles reaches for a relatively small cardboard container you've left on your bed and places it in his lap, but waits for any sign of your permission before lifting the lid up.

‘Pictures I didn’t like, and some old Polaroids, I think. I’m getting rid of them, though’, with a shrug, you navigate yourself between the packages in order to sit on the bed, facing him. You don’t think he’s going to actually go through the contents of the container, once you’ve said that, but for some reason, he opens it anyway, shifting through whatever’s inside.

You can’t stop yourself from observing him carefully, because even after knowing Charles for all these years, you haven’t shown many of your works to him—or to many others, for that matter— and you don’t know what reaction to expect. You know you’re not bad at this, that’s for sure, but you’ve always been a tad bit insecure about not being good enough. You can’t really help your perfectionism; even when you try to let go of it, reminding yourself that the perfect shot is more often the spontaneous, and not the meticulously prepared, carefully adjusted one, you’re forever haunted by the thought of not pressing the shutter button at the right moment, and subsequently, ruining everything you set yourself up for.

He pulls a few the photographs out and looks at them with the most undecipherable, strangely amused smile, shifts his gaze to you for a moment, then looks back at the pictures. After that, he starts laughing lightly, which confounds you very, very much, because, well, why on earth would he?

‘I cannot believe that you’re actually willing to throw these _gems_ away!’, he calms down a little, but the echo of a snicker is still recognisable in his voice. ‘To be honest, I was wondering where you kept them.’

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, not exactly knowing what he’s talking about, and, more importantly, which photos he’s looking at. Quickly, you get up, reach for the hand he’s holding them in, and move it so that you can see them too. In order to inspect them even more closely, you decide to take them from him, and examine them yourself.

‘Oh God’, you let out a chuckle too, even though yours is more awkward than cheerful, ‘There’s no way I’m _not_ throwing them away’, quite frankly, you sort of forgot about this particular set of photos, too, but in your defence, they’re not exactly what you’d like to be remembered for.

Shot with one of those awful, chunky instant cameras, the small prints show the two of you, looking into the lens and pulling the weirdest, most scrunched-up faces possible. Yours is preposterously idiotic, with one of your eyes half-closed in what was probably supposed to be a cheeky wink, and your tongue sticking out, while Charles, damn him, looks as dashing as always, even with the silliest of expressions. Even though it’s been a couple of years after you’ve taken them, the pictures are in excellent state, which you’re not sure you’re thankful for.

‘You won’t have to, because I’m keeping them’, he’s back to exploring the container, and you’d love to protest, but you know he’s not going to take that for an answer. ‘In fact, I’m keeping this whole box, because these are just _wonderful_ ’, he lifts up a few more photos and flashes them to you, each one more cringe-worthy than the previous. You want to disappear off the face of the Earth in embarrassment, but most of all, you want to laugh at your own ridiculousness with him. That provokes you to think that although you might not look your best in the Polaroid you’ve just seen, what matters is that you were happy at the moment you’ve taken it, and you realise that this exactly what you have been looking for—the spontaneity of it, and the warmth it brings to your heart—that it is what you’ve been mistakenly trying to stage.

It’s not the perfect picture, but it’s the happiest one, and that’s quite alright too.


End file.
